


i will chew the scab; i am still a boy

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Boys In Love, Bullying, Emetophobia, Gay Ishimaru Kiyotaka, Homophobia, Kiyotaka is asexual but not sex repulsed, M/M, POV Second Person, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Smoking, Social Anxiety, Trans Male Character, Trans Owada Mondo, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: In which Kiyotaka braves the uncertainty of a high school party and late adolescence.
Relationships: Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo, Kuwata Leon & Oowada Mondo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 113





	i will chew the scab; i am still a boy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm unhappy with this, I struggled to finish it, but at least it exists. I originally wanted to write a story about Taka being nervous at a party, but it kind of splintered into this. It's more or less a teen drama, but there's some hard themes. Taka suffers from anxiety, as well as general feelings of inadequacy. 
> 
> Also, I cannot believe I went THIS LONG before ever writing either of the boys as trans. I don't go too deep into it here, but Mondo is a stealth trans man. I am now pleading, I am BEGGING for trans Mondo content. 
> 
> Sorry for making Leon a jerk.

* * *

There is a split on your lip that stings when your boyfriend kisses you second to the bottle. You taste the alcohol foremost, addicted to that strange way it tastes nothing like him yet exactly how you once imagined him tasting. Mostly, he tastes like nicotine and toothpaste, the sin and the apology, the smoke and the mouthwash. He says he can quit whenever he wants, he sounds so cliche when he tells you that, as he devours them like candy. You watch him rip the wrapper off of a new pack, you watch him flip a cigarette before patting it back inside, calling it his _lucky_. When he finishes the box, he doesn't save it for himself, instead, he gifts it to you. You have a few dozen "lucky" cigarettes tucked inside a sock in your dresser, kept as mementos, saved as a reminder that your boyfriend adores you, but struggles to voice it. The way a cat trots home with a dead bird, to the horror of its owner. A misunderstood sentiment, a display of affection, lost in translation. The way Mondo limps home with a bloody fist and a cracked tooth, saying _I did this for you, I did it for us._ The way he isn't horrified by the bruising on the bridge of his nose, how he barely flinches as you dab disinfectant on the cuts on his hand. The way he says _they'll never fuck with us again._

Your lip is beginning to heal now. Those boys were suspended and you thought that was enough. Mondo thought differently.

He moaned in pain that night, miserably tongued at his broken tooth, and you clutched his hand in horror as his brother ripped it out with a pair of sterile pliers. He writhed, blinded with agony and you cried because he refused to, because you didn't know which was more grievous, being punched and called a faggot or losing a molar in an act of vengeance. His mouth swelled and he didn't kiss you for a few days, but he is kissing you now. 

You are at a party you only agreed to attend because you promised you would. You have turned down a dozen parties. Nothing about smoking and dancing and drinking appeals to you. Not to mention you are chronically unpopular, a regular eye roll among your classmates. You are a teacher's pet, first to raise your hand, the first to volunteer, your voice grating and raised. If you weren't so loud, the student body would have willed you out of existence by now. When you are not shouting, you are invisible. When you are silent, you fade into the background, you lose meaning, a smudged face, a sloppy sketch and oh, right, the party. There's music. The music is louder than you could ever hope to be and the chatter overwhelms you. People you recognize and people you don't, laughing, smiling, standing too close, but seeming far away. 

"You're okay," Mondo says, sensing your anxiety. His tone is firm, but not unkind. He grips your shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze. 

You grab his sleeve like a frightened child, following him deeper into the house. You are somewhere in the outskirts of Tokyo. Being inside the home of a stranger is nerve-wrecking. The other party goers navigate with ease, but somehow you manage to knock against furniture and bump shoulder after shoulder. Mondo steers you away from the crowd, as a precaution, hoping to save a toe from falling victim to your clumsy step. 

"You wanna leave?" he asks over the music. You have been here for an outstanding six minutes.

 _Please_.

"No," you answer quickly. Mondo raises an eyebrow in suspicion.

Before he can call you out on it, someone is grabbing his shoulder, pulling him into some kind of nonsensical debate about whether a dude could theoretically die from being blue balled. Mondo is such a guy's guy. That's not really who he is, but that's why most people like him, why most _guys_ like him. Frankly, he is terrified of women, rarely has any commentary on womanhood, or feminism, or any of it. He is trying to blend and he is succeeding. He talks about his dick as much as any high schooler, and the first time you slept together, you hadn't really known what to expect. You did it with the lights off and he wasn't comfortable with you penetrating him. Honestly, you had no real craving for sex, but you didn't mind, you did it to please him, and eventually he let you climb on top. He was nervous, he was sweating bullets, but since then, he's been all over you. Except for now. Now, he is several feet away, chugging cheap beer with a group of rowdy teens, third year students that have even less business being here than you and Mondo. 

Underage drinking. Your dad breaks up parties like these sometimes. Your brain has constructed a scenario, one where your father bursts through the front door, arrests your boyfriend then grounds you for a month. It could happen. _Tokyo cops act like they got nothing to do._ Mondo said that once. He thinks your dad's job is overhyped, that real crime involving gangs and street violence are rarely solved or even acknowledged by regular police. Tokyo cops don't mess with dangerous people, they're too busy helping lost tourists or talking down drunk salarymen. Your mind circles back. Dad isn't working tonight. He's home, probably asleep — _he deserves to rest, he works those long shifts so you can focus on school, just school, no part-time job —_ and you feel like such a bad child. You're graduating next month, you'll turn eighteen in August, and then you will go to college and Mondo will start his apprenticeship and everything will be okay. _Right?_

You check your cell phone. There's a text from your dad.

_Wrong._

"Hellooo?" 

You spin your head, unsure if the voice was even addressing you until an obnoxious hand waves for attention. You blink. You watch silver rings catch light and stare into the face of Leon Kuwata.

"You deaf or what?" he scoffs. You are. You are actually partially deaf in your right ear. You forget to answer his question, which he has so politely asked. You're trying to understand why he's even talking to you. 

Leon is popular. Where there is athleticism, there is popularity, and you appreciate his talent without knowing a single thing about baseball. Well, maybe you know just a few things. You've overheard him brag about making it to third base, but that might be less about the sport and more about his libido. He talks about his dick a lot, maybe more than Mondo. 

Standing beside the baseball prodigy is Sayaka Maizono. You have never been able to form a concrete opinion of her. She blends, too, just like Mondo, except her ability far outweighs his. She is liked, adored, and worshipped by guys and girls alike, an idol on the rise with a jaw dropping voice. She's gorgeous, too. She has a natural appearance, minimal makeup, as if her beauty is effortless. Her face is in her phone, skimming unread messages in a group chat. She doesn't acknowledge you. 

Beyond all reason, Leon offers you a cigarette. 

"Smoking is bad!" you blurt. You are awkward for saying it, but you are not wrong. 

"Seriously, man?" Leon scowls. If he wasn't annoyed earlier, then he is certainly annoyed now. "Get the fuck outta here with that attitude."

"He's just fuckin' with ya."

Mondo comes out of nowhere, and with just that and a smirk, dissolves the tension. You weren't joking, though, both you and Mondo know that. Although, you are also a poor conversationalist and Mondo knows that most of all.

"Hey, man!" Leon chirps, clapping up Mondo. The athlete's demeanor changes, just like that. You may as well be invisible.

Mondo used to have a crush on Leon. He confessed it to you before you started dating, failing to make eye contact even as you were burning a hole through him. He said Leon had slept over one weekend and they had sex on the couch. Mondo said it was sloppy and awkward, that Leon was surprisingly shy, but the orgasm was incredible. Sometimes you notice how Mondo lingers by Leon and maybe they're just being guys, just talking about sports, but you know Leon actually hates baseball and Mondo doesn't know how to swing a bat if it isn't a weapon. You notice him lingering now. You want to flee to the nearest corner, but his hand is like an anchor, weighing you down, torturing you for a minute of small talk.

"Dude, what happened to your face?"

A sound leaves your throat, but it falters as Mondo speaks over you. Of course Leon wasn't addressing you. You swallow your embarrassment, hoping neither of them heard. Mondo squeezes your shoulder, comforting you, having most definitely heard.

"Got into a fight. What the fuck else?" Mondo chuckles, low and easy. He's cool, how is he so cool? "That's nothin', though. Check it."

You watch him hook his finger and pull his mouth open, revealing the newly missing molar. Your eyes flick to the floor. He is so nonchalant about it. He is unbothered by what it represents and that bothers you. 

"Holy shit!" Leon barks, eyeing the black hole in Mondo's mouth. "That's fuckin' crazy, man! That shit had to hurt."

"Fuck yeah, it hurt," Mondo sort of laughs. You realize he isn't touching you anymore. 

Someone claps him on the shoulder, again. He is pulled away into a new conversation, pulled away from you, and once again you must fend for yourself. You glance back at a scowling Leon and a neutral Sayaka, tapping away at her phone, indifferent to the atmosphere.

"Dude, you look so out of place here, it's not even funny." Leon crosses his arms. "Go home."

"Mondo is my ride," you lie. Mondo had offered to drive, but you scolded him for the mere suggestion, so instead, you both took the train.

"Yeah, right. He's about to get shit faced," Leon gestures to your slightly intoxicated boyfriend, swinging one back for an audience in the kitchen. No need for concern yet. You're about to excuse yourself and join him, but Leon chimes up. "I saw you hanging on his arm earlier. What's that all about?"

Sayaka peers up from her phone. She looks up at you, _looks through you_ , then pops her head back down to her screen.

"Leave him alone, Leon."

"What?" he laughs, somewhat nervous, somewhat righteous. "Don't act all innocent. You were just asking me about it five damn minutes ago."

She glares at him, as though daring him with her eyes. They share a tense moment and you wonder why Sayaka tolerates it. Leon grins, not at you, but his expression makes you uneasy and you want it to end. You take the bait.

"About what?" 

He doesn't miss a beat.

"About you being a homo—"

Sayaka smacks him.

"—and if you're really hooking up with Mondo. Ow!"

"You're such a jerk!" Sayaka gasps, swatting empty air as he dodges her half hearted attempt. 

"What? He asked!" Leon laughs, as though in good humor. He shoves his hands in his pockets, smirking as he offers you his undivided attention. "It's just a rumor, right? I mean, everyone already kinda knows you're gay, but you and Mondo? As an item?"

"Just ignore him, Ishimaru," Sayaka casually advises. She shakes her head at Leon, then finishes sending a text. 

"Do you," your stomach is tied up, "know where the bathroom is?"

There is a line for the bathroom, because of course there is. You stumble outside, you need to find a place to collapse and make a few ugly faces, and preferably alone. The street is mostly empty, you can be spared the sympathetic glance of any passerby as you curl up into yourself. You press your forehead to your knees, breathing hard through your nose. Why are you so upset? Why are you so _sensitive?_ You tongue the split in your lip, agitating the flesh until it burns and tastes like iron. You stare into the sky, devoid a few million stars thanks to the light pollution of the city. You stare for a long time. 

Mondo is leaning on you, suddenly. You're unsure how he found you. His swings his arm around your shoulder and your heart could swell with affection, but you are currently on edge. He drops his hand to cradle your hip, losing balance as he does it, but you catch him.

"Yer so fuckin' hot. I was lookin' at you from across the room earlier, like, holy shit, I want him, but yer already mine, right? We should bone," he purrs against your neck. You flinch without meaning to. "What's wrong, babe?"

"Nothing!" you laugh. 

"You lyin' to me?" he shakes you playfully. 

You must have been outside for awhile, because yeah, he's drunk now. The scent is on him like cheap perfume and you scrunch your nose as he dives in for a kiss. You hesitate before accepting it, feeling a little drunk yourself as that bitter flavor hits your taste buds. With a soft sound, you return the kiss, face burning up as he slips his tongue inside, teasing you with a gentle swipe along the roof of your mouth. You feel hot all over, like a fever has consumed your body, shivering as he begins to pull away. You whine and he rewards you for it, kissing you harder and harder until you squirm, your zipper suddenly too tight for comfort. He palms at your clothed erection and you gasp in his mouth. He pulls you into his lap and all you want to think about is _him_ , but the front door isn't quite far enough; anyone could stumble by. 

Mondo isn't fearful. He takes your hand and boldly shoves it down the front of his joggers. You go red, realizing there is nothing underneath, only warm, wet skin. He sighs from the briefest touch, pressing you closer, shielding any suspecting eye from your unwholesome activity. At this rate, you might sweat through your clothes. He encourages you with a shallow thrust of his hips, but your anxiety is high. You carefully press into him, one finger, then two as he groans for more. He rests his face against your shoulder and you bury your face into his. 

"Wanna go home?" 

You finger him lazily, focused on the sound of his breathing, how it hitches as you massage him with your thumb. You nod. 

You won't make him come like this. Your performance is poor, because you are simply bad at sex. You've been waiting for him to tell you that, but he never does. You are suddenly feeling very inadequate. Mondo wordlessly grabs your wrist, pulling you out with a hiss. He cleans your hand with the end of his shirt, much to your horror. _Gross._ He barks out of a laugh, fishing for his lighter and nearly dropping it. You are mesmerized as he cradles a cigarette in his mouth, you have watched him do this a hundred times, and he lights it with a flick. He turns his head as he inhales, then exhales the smoke away from your face.

"Alright," he says simply. "Let's go."

He stands with a grunt. You reach for his hand, swaying before landing steady on your feet. A wave of relief washes over you. Before you can savor it, you hear the front door open, music spilling onto the street, then a familiar voice.

"Mondo!" Leon calls. Your boyfriend turns his head, reaction somewhat delayed. "Hey, man. Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Hang tight," he tells you with a light punch to your arm. Just like that. 

"Sure."

You feel so secondary.

You hang tight for about two minutes. Then four or five. You eye the text message from your father, but refuse to open it. Feeling antsy, you step back inside, trying to become one with the wallpaper and failing miserably. You watch a couple move down the stairwell, hand in hand, before stopping midway to make-out. You squeeze past them with surprising grace. The second floor is unfamiliar territory, the doors are closed, but the rooms are lit, and you can hear movement behind each one. You travel down the end of the hall and much to your annoyance, find an unoccupied second bathroom. You almost step inside before you notice a shadow dancing along the floor. Two shadows. The door is ajar, making it easy enough to peek inside.

"I'm just saying, you could do a lot better."

Leon smooths his hand over Mondo's thigh, he does it so slyly that you hardly notice at first, and neither does your boyfriend. Mondo glances down and his mouth twists into a confused smile, before dropping his hand over Leon's to push it away. Leon ignores the subtle rejection, inches closer to Mondo, whispering something you can't hope to hear. Maybe it's for the best that you don't, because in the next moment, Leon is all over him, batting for a kiss and he lands it. His fingers are in your boyfriend's hair, raking through his scalp and your vision goes blurry, as if you are dreaming, as if none of it is real. Mondo _moans_ and it is the absolute worst sound you have ever heard. He has never sounded like that with you, never, never, never. Your stomach twists up into a hard, achy knot. 

Mondo shoves him. Hard.

You stumble backwards and move through the house as quickly as possible without attracting unwanted attention to yourself. You get as far as the front door before Mondo has somehow caught up with you, hand on your back, pushing you through the entrance. You wipe your tears before he can notice.

"C'mon," he seethes. He doesn't mean it, but when he grabs you, he does it harshly. 

The train ride home feels quicker than you expect. Mondo passes out beside you the moment he sits down, his snoring quiet. The passenger car is uncrowded, only a small number of people ever travel during this time of night. The city looks surreal. You decide to finally open the text from your father.

**DAD**

_I noticed you aren't home. Just let me know when you get back. Be safe!_

You could cry. You let out a small, pathetic garble, instead. Mondo shifts against you, his eyebrows pulling together in clear discomfort. You smooth your hand along the back of his head, scratching his scalp in slow circles. An elderly man scoffs at you, you hadn't seen him sitting there, only a short distance away. If Mondo were awake, he would growl at him, like, actually growl, and you would bow your head in apology. You would be so embarrassed, but you would love him for it, too. If you only had the nerve. Instead, you turn away, feeling ashamed for your actions. You drop your hand and Mondo whines in his sleep.

"Mondo," you say firmly as you near your stop. He jolts from his nap and hobbles off the train with you.

You are aiming for total silence as you enter your house, but it is frighteningly loud as you click the lock. Your dad has kept on the kitchen light, so you are not completely blind as you slip off your shoes at the door. You help Mondo out of his boots, crouching on the floor as you unlace the many notches. He folds his arms against the wall, face buried in them, body twisted awkwardly as though he's trying to sleep right there. You pat his thigh when you are finished, signaling him to move, but he hesitates, head still swimming in alcohol. With a groan, he pushes himself off the wall and follows you to your bedroom. Your father's door is open just a crack. You remember to shoot him a text and his phone chimes distantly from the black hole of his bedroom. 

Mondo collapses onto your bed. You shrug off your shirt, unzip your pants, then throw on the nearest sweatpants you can find. Mondo throws his jacket onto your floor and seems satisfied enough with that. You bend to fold it, but before you can finish, he pulls you into bed, rolls on top of you, tongue down your throat before you can even process what's happening. You kiss him back, obliging him, but can't meet his intensity. 

"I want you inside me," he moans. You can't get the image of Leon kissing him out of your head. 

"You're too drunk."

"I ain't that drunk." You can hear the eye roll in his voice. "Please? C'mon, I'm horny as fuck."

"I-I don't," you stutter, "I don't want to. Not tonight."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Such a liar. You offer some truth. "It's late. My dad is trying to sleep."

"I get it," he groans, rolling onto his back. "Sorry."

"Mondo," you say. You already feel guilty for denying him. There's no reason for it, you shouldn't feel guilty, but you do. His hand finds yours.

"I-I love you," he says suddenly, dissolving into the mattress.

He's always trying to tell you that without saying it. With the cigarettes, with the fist fights. You know his view on masculinity has been skewed by his own need for acceptance. He is not aggressive by nature, but by necessity. You squeeze his hand and want to give him everything. 

"I love you, too." You kiss him gingerly, careful to avoid the bruise on his face. He groans, as though embarrassed by the exchange.

"I know I'm gross, but don't leave, okay?"

"Okay," you promise.

You flick off the lamp on your nightstand, then curl into your boyfriend. He has his arm wrapped around you, fingers ghosting over your skin. You mirror him, resting your palm over his slow breathing chest, tracing light circles, avoiding the scars. He passes out in mere minutes. 

You wake up beside him, practically falling off the bed. You can't recall falling asleep. Outside, the sky is a fuzzy indigo, a particular shade you associate with very early morning. Wordlessly, you press against Mondo, encouraging him to move away so you don't topple onto the floor. The bed hog groans in protest, but scoots back. 

"Will ya break up with me if I barf in yer bed?" He asks in a groggy voice. 

You jump to your feet with a sense of urgency. 

He's bigger than you, but you're strong. He weakly rises from the mattress and you pull, gripping his arm, helping him stand. Fortunately, the bathroom isn't far. He hugs the toilet and his body lurches forward. He retches, you wince. He tries pulling his shirt off, but is overcome by a second, more violent urge. When it passes, you reach over and relieve him off his sticky shirt. His back is rolling with sweat, so you quickly run a washcloth beneath the sink. Not too cold, but cold enough to ease the heat. You smooth it over his skin and he moans weakly. He rests his head against the toilet bowl for several minutes, before finally spitting into the water.

"Shit," he sniffles.

"Will you be okay?"

"Yeah." He takes the washcloth from you, resting it to his forehead. "Thanks, babe."

You hear your father's bed creak. That's not surprising. As a parent, he has every right to poke his head into the bathroom, or maybe give a polite knock at the door, but your father does no such thing. It's strange, you never asked for it, but he gives you so much privacy. Perhaps you've earned it, you've been a good kid all your life, with the small exception of tonight, but even then. He is especially respectful when it comes to you and Mondo. Refusing to pry, almost to the point where you wish he did. You want to know that he cares. You question if he would maintain this same distance if you were dating a girl. If your girlfriend was vomiting into the toilet, you can imagine him knocking. 

"May I ask you a question?"

Mondo sighs, like he's been expecting it.

"Yeah, what's up?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing appears. Really, you have a dozen questions you could ask him, but the most pressing, the thing that's really bothering you, well that's… everything. How do you voice that? Mondo breaks the silence. 

"Did someone say somethin' to you?" He spits again, then flushes the toilet. 

"No."

"Who?"

He asks it quickly. He always knows when you're lying. You would praise him for having a good nose for bullshit, but honestly, you're just a bad liar. He glares you down, his eyes appearing dark beneath the harsh, fluorescent light. Your lip quivers. 

"Leon Kuwata."

"Man," Mondo rolls his eyes, he almost laughs, "forget him."

You watch him fumble with his shirt, tugging on the fabric, but never pulling it on. Absently, he shakes his head, lost in thought.

Despite yourself, you ask, "Do you still like him?"

"What?" His volume startles you, but you had startled him first. He shakes his head harder, in that way that tells you he's not only annoyed, but disappointed. Not in you, but himself. "I never shoulda told ya about that. It was just somethin' that happened, Taka, and y'know, maybe it meant somethin' to him, but it didn't mean shit to me."

He thinks you're talking about their hookup, not about the unfortunate scene you witnessed at the party. You watch him stand. He seems ready to leave the room and abandon the conversation, but your body is blocking the exit. He towers you, he says God or whoever has burdened him with the wrong body, but his genes are impeccable. He's tall. He's so handsome. He is so scary when he looks down at you like this, like an obstacle, like he is an injured animal and you are threatening his escape. When did the air become so thick?

"I saw him kiss you," you admit. He sighs, exhaustively. 

"He was drunk. We both were. He was tryna get me back or somethin'. It really pissed me off, too, alright? Fuckin' grabbin' me like that. I almost punched him," he huffs. "I know I sorta hesitated. My mind went blank before I realized what the fuck was happenin'. I'm sorry about that, alright?"

"Don't yell," you shush him. 

"Jesus! I ain't fuckin' yellin'. I'm sorry, okay? I'm really fuckin' sorry." He grabs you by the shoulders, hard. You catch a glimpse of your face in his eyes, you both see it simultaneously, your uneasy expression. He loosens his grip, then gives a gentle, apologetic squeeze. "Listen, Taka, I'm so goddamn crazy about you. I ain't ever met a guy like you before. Guys like Leon? They just wanna score. That's all that fuckin' was. I couldn't get girls because I was afraid of 'em judging me and guys? Forget it. They'd tell the whole class in a second. Leon hasn't said shit. He's too afraid of lookin' gay if no one believes him."

"I don't know what to say." You don't. A moment passes.

"Whatever," he frowns. He looks hurt. 

You let him push past you, expecting him to make a right into your bedroom, but instead, he heads for the front door. He unravels his sweat stained shirt from his fist and yanks it over his head. Your dad is in the kitchen, standing with a mug of coffee, eyes darting from Mondo to you, with a look of confusion, but mostly concern. Mondo nods toward your dad and mumbles a good morning, then begins lacing his boots. Your legs feel frozen, but you force them to move, keeping your head down as you pass your father and approach Mondo. He's patting around for his cigarettes, but they are still in his jacket, in your bedroom. 

"Don't leave," you beg in a whisper, hoping your father won't overhear.

"Calm down," his tone is equally hushed. He uselessly pats through his pockets, finding his lighter, but nothing else. "I was just tryna go for a smoke. I need to cool off."

"You're mad?" Your eyes begin to sting. The thought of displeasing him is enough to make you cry, apparently.

"Taka," your name booms in his chest, "I'm mad about a bunch of shit, but I ain't ever been mad at you. Alright? Just believe me when I say that."

You want to believe him, but there is a lump in your throat and you can't swallow it down.

"I'm sorry I'm bad at sex," it just spills out of you, from some deep, dark, spiraling vortex of teenage shame. Mondo's face goes red, composure shattered, eyes flicking up to meet your father's, still idling in the kitchen. Your boyfriend grabs your arm and pulls you through the front door with lightning speed. 

"What the fuck are ya talking about?" His voice is strained. He looks like he might die from embarrassment, hunched over you, one hand on the door knob, the other still clutching your wrist. 

"I'm apologizing," you say plainly. 

"For what? Your dick?" He quips.

"For not being enough." 

His face loses color.

"Why would you even say that?" His eyes search your face for an answer. Ashamed, you face the ground, unable to withstand his gaze. He tips your chin up, practically forcing you to look at him. "Huh? Answer me! Why the fuck would you say that? Are people sayin' that shit to you?"

 _"I don't know,"_ you inhale the words, then exhale a sob. You can't decide where your hands belong, trembling at your sides, or touching him. "You should break up with me."

He doesn't flinch or even entertain it. You are weightless as he pulls you to his chest and the moment you feel the skin, the hard jut of his collarbone, you wail. He rakes his fingers through your thick, dark hair, comforting you with the easy repetition. Your face is wet, you taste the salt, you taste the sweat on his shirt and in your mouth. Your knees buckle and together you sink to the ground. You cry until you forget why you were even crying to begin with. His eyes are soft and he pecks your neck and then you are crying again.

The sun rises. It warms your skin, but the morning chill causes a shiver to race up your spine. On his way out the door, your father drapes a blanket over the two of you. He does it wordlessly, loving you from afar, rustling your unkempt hair then leaving for work. You think about how your mom divorced your dad and that maybe he doesn't believe in love anymore. You think about how he never asked about your bloody lip, too frightened to acknowledge it. You think about how, in just a few days, it will be fully healed. The bruise on Mondo's face, that will heal, too. Your boyfriend kisses you in the tangerine glow and somehow the taste is just as sweet. 


End file.
